Chapter CI: Book VII: (irma's Journal.) (2)

Nature is terrible. It labors long and patiently to bring forth a being which it suddenly and wantonly suffers to die.

*

Sundays go hardest with me. One is used to look for something unusual on that day. We put on a particular dress and expect the world to do the same. On that day, more than on all others, I feel that I am in a strange world.

The brook murmurs and the birds sing, just as they did yesterday. What right have I to ask them to sing me a different song to-day?

Nature has no moods; they belong to man alone.

In this lies a heavy burden.

*

In former days, while watching the forms and colors of the clouds, I was obliged to look up into the sky. But now I see them resting on the earth below me.

I can pass hours, watching the passing clouds and their ever-changing forms as reflected on the mountains. The earth itself was fashioned from such fluid masses. No artist can realize the extent of this cloud-world, or its wealth of form. Before our thoughts attain fixed shape, they, too, must pass through this nebulous state, in which, however, we are unable to perceive them.

*

Singing birds, in great variety, have clustered at the edge of the forest. The notes of the lark, the yellowhammer, the green finch, the blackbird, the thrush, the red-tail, and the titmouse are heard all at once. Only a few of the birds that build their nests deep in the forest, sing there.

*

In springtime, forest rills become brooks. In summer, naught is visible, save the dry bed of the stream. It is the same with our own lives.

*

When old Jochem hears me rejoice because spring has come, he always says: "What does it signify? In a few weeks, the days will begin to shorten again."

*

If human beings, like the trees, bore visible blossoms, these blossoms would assume a different shape and color, with each succeeding year. The blossoms of my soul were once so bright; but now--

*

For the first time in my life, I have seen a pair of eagles soaring in the air. What a life theirs must be! They hovered far overhead, and described a circle in their flight. About what were they circling? Then they soared still higher and vanished in the empyrean.

The world still contains spirits whose flights are as free and as bold as that of the eagle. There is no creature that soars above the king of birds, no enemy that can approach him. But man sends forth the fatal ball and thus exerts an influence in regions which the eye alone can pierce.

_He_ too was filled with pride when he had shot an eagle. And why? Because it was a proof of his power, and he adorned my hat with the token of his victory. Ah, woe is me!

Why does this grief constantly return to me?

*

We women are never alone in nature. This is only another proof of the deep truth that lies in the old tradition. Man, created first, was alone; but woman, who came afterward, never existed alone. This repeats itself through the history of all nations, and a perplexing mystery is at last revealed to me.

*

In the world of fashion, just as in the park, the traces of footsteps are effaced by obsequious servants. There must be nothing to remind us of yesterday.

And yet their life is to form a part of history.

*

To cease evil, is not doing good.

I would like to accomplish some great deed. But where?

Within myself alone.

*

My little pitchman is quite a changed being when among scenes of nature. He does not love nature. To use his own words, it merely amuses him. He delights in the most trifling peculiarities of bird-life, and how well he knows all the birds!

*

(Many rainy days.)--I long for the sun, and am almost dying for the want of it. I feel as if I were fading, as if perishing with thirst--I cannot live without the sun. It is my debtor for the lovely May days of which I have been deprived. I must have them; they are my only comfort.

*

If I remain thus dependent upon the weather, permitting every cloud to darken my mind, and every shower to chill me with the feeling that I am forsaken, it were far better I were lying at the bottom of the lake, and that the boatman were telling those whom he was ferrying across: "Far below us, lies a young maid of honor."--I have once before bade farewell to the sun, and I mean to be independent of it.

*

There are beings who know nothing of rain and sunshine, and yet live.

But there are, also, others who are filled with dew-forming power--but they are the calm, self-contained, powerful natures, whose life is an inner, rather than an outer, one.

*

(June 12th.)--After many hot days, there was rain last night. The drops are still glittering on every leaf and flower. Oh, the delightful morning that has succeeded the nocturnal storm! To have fully enjoyed such a morning is worth the trouble of living.

*

Jochem has a lark in a cage--he must have something shut up with him.

The lark affords me great delight. There are but few of them up here, for we have nothing but meadow land. They love to hover over the fields of grain down in the valley.

*

After the midsummer solstice, the woods become silent. The sun now merely ripens, and has ceased to call forth blossoms and song. The finch alone keeps up his merry lay.

*

From my window, I can see the white foal grazing in the meadow. He knows me. When I look up, he stands still for a while and looks at me, and then dashes hither and thither at a furious rate. I have named him Wodan, and when I call him by that name, he comes to me.

I have sketched the foal, and am now carving it in birch. I think I shall succeed, but wood is obstinate, awkward stuff, after all. I lose my patience on slight provocation. I must try to overcome this.

*

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now it is over.

*

I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world.

*

Unto Jesus the scribes and pharisees brought a woman who was to be stoned to death, and he said unto them: "Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone."

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live? She who was saved from being stoned to death; she who was pardoned, that is, condemned to live? How did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the world? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience.

*

"Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone." These are the noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "let there be light" of the second creation. They divide and heal my little life, too, and create me anew.

*

Has one who is not wholly without sin, a right to offer precepts and reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than merely lift them in prayer.

*

Since I am alone, I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and wish for none, and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I wish to be perfectly alone.

*

She who renounces the world, and, in her loneliness, still cherishes the thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that join in a chorale sustain each other, and when the tone at last ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one, and my heart is often so heavy, as if I must needs have, another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

*

For the first time in a year, I saw a carriage driving up the white road that leads through the valley. Those who were sitting in it, could not know how my eyes followed them. Whither go ye? who are ye?

*

I must write again. I believe that I at last know the full meaning of the word "gemüthlich." It includes careful thought for the comfort of others even in the merest trifles, and requires one to put himself in another's place. It is the heart, expressing itself in poetry; it is feeling, clothing itself in the garb of fancy.

True culture includes this feeling; for what is culture but the power to put one's self in another's place, and "to see ourselves as others see us"?

My opinion is still unchanged. Hansei seems dull and awkward, and yet he has far more of the best culture than many a one who is decorated with orders and epaulettes and is regarded as one of the most charming of cavaliers.

*

I constantly keep thinking that there is something in me which I have not yet discovered. It gives me no rest. Is it an idea, a feeling, a word, or a deed? I know not, but I feel that there is something within me that seeks a vent. Perhaps death may come before I discover it.

*

Old Jochem still remembers a few verses from the hymnbook, and keeps repeating them to himself, but in such perverted shape that they are sheer nonsense. I offered to teach him the verses correctly, but this made him very angry, and he told me that I was trying to teach him something new, and that it would not answer. His nonsense seems dear to him. He does not understand it, and the air of mystery thus imparted to it renders it far more impressive.

*

One who has never experienced the feeling, cannot know what it is to long for a few words of conversation with your equals. It is a consuming thirst. Any one who can speak my language would serve my purpose. I cannot endure this strain. I feel as if I were in a strange land, and were vainly listening for the beloved accents of my native tongue. It is well for me that I can work.

*

As long as I had Walpurga with me in the palace, I could speak to her freely on various subjects. When I came to her, it was a change, a stepping out of the sphere in which my thoughts were accustomed to move. But here, where I have her and nothing else, it is different. It is not pride--for what have I to do with pride? Is it alienation, or is it sullen listlessness?

*

_Naïveté_ pleases us only for a short time. Wisdom always remains attractive--such wisdom as mother Beate's or Gunther's. Yes, I long for him most of all.

Wisdom is cultured _naïveté_ or, to speak more correctly, the _naïveté_ of genius. It is the rosy apple; _naïveté_ the blossom from which it sprang, still dwells in the fruit, as its core.

Night and day, the various elemental influences, clear perception and the mysterious forces of nature:--all these help to perfect the finest fruit.

*

I cannot look upon work as the noblest thing in life. The perfect man is he who does nothing, who cherishes himself--; such is the life of the gods, and what is man but the god of creation?

My heresy thus expresses itself. I have confessed and repented of it. But in the confessor's chair sits one who is in the right when he says: "Very well, my child! And so the noblest and most exalted life is simply existence, void of effort. But, since no one can live unless some other being labors for him, it follows that all must do something. Nothing can be had without pay. The one class has not been sent into the world merely to exist, nor the other merely to labor."

*

How happy I might become if there were no past. A life hereafter, filled with memories--how sad the thought! And yet without memories, would it be a second life?

*

True joy at last dwells with us. Whenever we partake of anything, Walpurga always says: "We planted this ourselves; on such a day, we set our beans. I put them in Burgei's hand, and she dropped them on the garden beds."

And thus it seems to be with all things. The past is being renewed to us.

*

I have found it difficult to go over the same task, again and again. But the constant repetition is what constitutes labor. Without that, it is mere amusement.

Nature constantly repeats herself, and we must serve her by imitating her. She repeats herself through her laws; man, through his duties.

I have, nevertheless, indulged in variations, and not without success. While walking through the stable, I observed the cow lowing and turning toward her sucking calf. I have carved the figures in wood.

I should like to imitate every object in nature--to create the world anew, as it were, so that men might see all things as I see them.

I thank Thee, Eternal Spirit, for bestowing these gifts upon me.

*

The chief aim of life is not joy, nor is it repose. It must be labor. Perhaps there is no chief aim, after all.

*

Love and labor are the body and soul of mankind. Happy is he in whom they are united. I have forfeited love--nothing is left me but labor.

*

My white foal! It looks at me, and I look at it in return. Free and uncontrolled, it scampers about the field, and yet I seize it and send it out into the world, so that others, too, may delight in the pretty, playful animal.

I have sketched it in various positions. Its every movement is replete with strength and grace.

*

I have carved the figure of my white foal, and have completed it with incredible rapidity. My friends are astonished, and so am I. I look upon it as a success.

My little pitchman--why should I dislike to mention it?--carried the figure down to the dealer. It grieved me to part with my work, but the little magic horse must, and does, support me. It was sold at a good price, and I received a large order, besides.

*

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what Countess Brinkenstein, pious Constance, Schnabelsdorf, or Bronnen, would say if they were to see me now; and at such moments, I am obliged to look around, in order to satisfy myself that they are not present.

So long as I cannot govern my imagination, I am not free. Fancy is the most powerful of despots.

*

Our fountain gushes and bubbles the whole night through, and when the moonlight rests upon it, it is lovelier and more peaceful than ever. The earth bounteously gives forth its healing waters. They flow unceasingly. All that we need do is to go to the spring and drink. My favorite seat is near there. Its waters sometimes suddenly increase in volume and swiftness, as if they were bringing me a special message. Perhaps it is all caused by the currents of air, and I may be mistaken after all. One easily gives way to reverie when by the spring.

*

Gundel, the little pitchman's daughter, affords me much much pleasure. The honest, kind-hearted, simpleminded creature is now full of joy; she loves, and is loved in return.

One of the farm hands is a native of Hansei's birthplace. He was once in the cuirassiers, and this faithful, but rough and ill-favored lad, is Gundel's lover. A girl whom no one has noticed, whose life has been constant drudgery, is invested with new importance, both in her own eyes and in those of others, as soon as she becomes the object of a man's love. All that she does is regarded as good and pretty, and she is at once lifted up out of her lowly and forgotten state.

Love is the crown of every life, a diadem even on the lowliest head.

When Gundel goes about her rough work--to draw water, or to feed the cattle--she seems radiant with newborn happiness.

Although I have said nothing, she notices that I am interested in her, and she often ask whether there is anything she can do for me.

I wish that riches were again mine, so that I might make these lovers happy.

*

How foolish is the desire to be ever original. Nature constantly repeats herself. The rose of to-day is like that of yesterday.

Men determine for themselves--and in this lies their torment.

*

I have not yet put vanity away from me. I am still moved to delight whenever a happy expression flows from my pen. But is this really vanity? I think not. Although alone in my cell, I adorn myself for my own sake. Beauty has become a necessity to me. I must be surrounded by objects of beauty, and must also possess it in myself. Uncouthness does not offend me, but ugliness, affects me just as discords do. In the so-called cultivated world, a rude expression excites a deprecatory "Ah!" while elegant vulgarity is smiled upon.

*

I am obliged to read old Jochem's bond to him, at least once a week. Although he knows it by heart, he insists upon hearing it again and satisfying himself that it is all right, and properly signed and sealed. He does not suffer it to leave his hands. I am obliged to read it while he holds it. He trusts no one.

The old man almost seems to regret that he has nothing to complain of, and is constantly urging me to prepare a memorial to the king, so that he may have it at hand when required. How strange that the king should always seem to him the personification of right and justice.

He has much to tell me about the late king, under whom he served. He describes him as a perfect gentleman, and says that he often hunted in this region. He has been informed that the present king is not much of a hunter, and that he sticks to the priests, who, in return, grant him absolution. He always concludes by asking whether I have ever seen the king, and, although I have answered "No" a hundred times, he keeps on repeating the same question.

*

Hansei was right, after all! I feel as if I ought to crave his pardon. It is a disgusting sight to behold the old pensioner at his meals; and if one does not intend to have him at table for the remainder of his life, one had better not begin with him. Hansei's objection was kind and clever, not rude and ill-natured. Kind resolves that cannot be fully carried out, had better not be attempted.

When I spoke of this to Walpurga to-day, she answered me, through her tears, saying: "I'd a thousand times rather hear you praise him than me."

*

It is not until humanity becomes a duty that we can truly know whether its exercise is a pleasure or a sacrifice.

Naturally enough, I have treated Jochem kindly, have often had him visit me, and have tried to entertain him. Now he will not leave me to myself, and robs me of my only possession--solitude. Although it cost me an effort, I was obliged to insist upon his only visiting me during certain hours. But even that is irksome, for I am no longer perfect mistress of my time. When the bell in the valley tolls the hour of twelve, the old man comes and sits with me. Our conversations are not very fruitful or suggestive. His stock of ideas is but a limited one, and topics that are not related to them fail to excite his interest. Besides that, he coughs a great deal, and is always asking me to tell him about my father. He seems to forget that I have already told him that I never knew my father. It was the saddest thing I ever said, but I did not know my father while he lived. I understood him not, although he attempted to reveal himself to me. From the depths of my soul, I cry out to him: "My poor father! you tried to perfect yourself, but your last action, although it was meant to arouse me, was the act of one who was in fetters. I now accomplish what you falteringly began. While laboring for you, my love for you has become full and complete. You are now near to me, and have become what you longed to be--my preserver."

*

I have at last made it a rule that the old man shall only come when I send for him. I could not do otherwise. And this I find almost worse than to have fixed hours for his visits, for now I am often obliged to stop and ask myself: "Isn't it time to call the old man? He won't disturb me now." He thus engages my thoughts more than before.

I must learn to bear with him patiently, and Jochem will surely improve. When I say to him: "I can't talk now," he is satisfied. All that he asks is to be permitted to sit there in silence.

*

How well one sleeps when tired with work. How good it is to have hunger and fatigue, when one is safely able to satisfy their demands.

In the great world, they eat and sleep, but are never tired or hungry.

I never knew how much I used to talk, and how necessary conversation had become to me. But now that I have learned how to be silent, and live alone with my own thoughts, I do know; I now see that the presence of others exerted an electric influence upon me, overcharging my nature. I was never unreal, but was more than I really am. I made others cheerful, but how rarely was I so!

*

Labor is the consoling friend and companion of solitude.

He who has not lived alone, does not know what labor is.

*

I am often reminded of Dante's: "There can be no greater suffering than, in one's misery, to remember happier days." But why does he not tell us what kind of happiness he means? It must always be delightful to remember innocent joys, though the unhappiness that follows be ever so great.

But Francesca refers to happiness allied with guilt. And I know that she is right.

I still remember my father's parting advice: "Indulge only in such pleasures as it will afford you pleasure to look back upon."

*

What strange, hidden springs flow through one's soul. Ever since the sad saying of Dante's occurred to me, all my thoughts have been translating themselves into Italian.

*

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me has become mute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough--but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet where and what shall it be?

*

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition. Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to make life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustains me.

*

My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. My little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent and well seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just been torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are considerable.

*

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.

*

The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity than does the smoothest surface.

*

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for, at every step, he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

*

Our life here is like that of plants. Our chief care is as to the weather. Rain and sunshine affect us as they do the plants that require their aid. Hansei often complains that he does not understand the weather signs hereabouts. In his old home by the lake, he could always tell how the weather would be. His want of knowledge on this subject prevents him from feeling quite at home here. Our little pitchman, however, is a most reliable weather-prophet, and has thus come to be looked upon as quite an important personage. I am his docile scholar and he is quite proud of me. Although he is quite intimate with me, and often indulges in pleasantry, he never fails to treat me with great respect.

Those who know nothing of etiquette, often make up for the want of it by their tact. I congratulated the little pitchman last week. It was on the occasion of his birthday, and when I shook hands with him, his face grew scarlet. He thanked me heartily, and kept saying that when he got to heaven, he would bespeak good quarters for me, and that his old woman wouldn't get angry if he possessed both her and myself in the next world. He is always happy when serving me. When he builds a fire in my stove, he ogles every log, as if it ought to feel it an honor to be permitted to help keep me warm.

*

The census troubled me greatly to-day. After dinner, Hansei produced the blank which he was required to fill, and handed it to Walpurga, with the words: "Do you write, or let her"--meaning me--"write her name, her age, and where she comes from?"

We were in great tribulation, until Walpurga, at last, solved the difficulty by saying that there was no need of telling everything.

The remark was quite opportune and afforded a convenient excuse to Hansei, who was greatly annoyed by another schedule, in which he was expected to state the annual yield of milk and of butter, the number of chickens on the farm, etc., etc. Hansei was angry at the officials, and felt quite sure that they meant to impose another tax. His wrath saved me, but defrauded the state out of one soul.

The people hereabouts look upon the state and its functionaries as their natural enemies, and have no scruples as to deceiving them.

*

For the first time in my life, I have seen a tree felled.

I was filled with awe when I saw it topple for a moment, before the final crash. It reminded me of the fate of a man who is, at one blow, hurled from sunny heights into the depths of misery.

Hansei is having a path cut through the forest. It passes by my window, and the clearing will afford me a fine view. He was quite happy when I told him of this.

*

Hansei was at the capital. On his return, he unwrapped a large parcel and, with conscious pride, showed us what sensible presents he had bought. They were the pictures of the king and queen.

In his kindness of heart, he offered to let me hang up the pictures in my room, and was quite provoked to find that his wife wanted to keep them for herself. I satisfied him at last by saying: "The sitting-room belongs to us all."

But the pictures seemed to be looking at me constantly, and made it unpleasant for me to remain in the room. Walpurga noticed this and, to my great relief, removed them to her bedroom. Hansei does not take notice of such matters.

The king's portrait represents him in the dress of a citizen. Is it a sign that--?

*

Hansei at last reveals his plan. It is quite a clever stroke of his to begin by cutting roads through the forest, so that the beams can be brought down from far up the mountain, and thus fetch him thrice as much money as if they were cut into smaller logs.

*

(April 3d.)--At first, there is so much to observe. The whole world seems like a young child, or like the first verdure of spring. Later, one grows accustomed to it all, and it seems as if things were always and everywhere alike. It seems to me that life would be insupportable, if the world were ever new and left us no repose.

Habit, our second mother, is a good mother, too.

*

They have fastened a rope to the feet of my white foal, so that it cannot run away. It can now only move about slowly. The freedom and grace of its movements are gone, even before it is put in harness.

Oh, how many human beings have a like fate!

*

I love to watch the rain calmly descending upon the earth. If I were not obliged to work, I could remain by my window for hours, lost in reverie and looking out and listening, for it seems to me as if I were endowed with a million eyes and could see every drop as it falls on the half-open buds. But here, we are all constantly at work. I am ashamed to sit here with my hands in my lap. The rain in springtime is soft and beautiful, lending voice, form and substance to the air, and to every tiny rill.

*

Formerly, I always required a spyglass, where I no longer need it.

It is because we do not live in the open air, that we become near-sighted.

*

The rose may be improved by cultivation, and the thorns growing on its stalk may become different from what they were; but they are thorns, nevertheless.

*

(April 15th.)--I have heard the yellow-hammer, for the first time this year. In springtime its notes are far more rapid and short than in summer.

*

(April 23d.)--The first swallow has come. Now may we softly lull ourselves to rest in the consciousness that sweet spring is with us once again. The uncertain and anxious fluttering from one fair day to another, is at an end.

My little pitchman says: "Swallows and starlings come and go in the night." The idea is quite suggestive.

*

(End of April.)--We have had a shower. Oh, what fragrant odors it awakened in flowers, grass and trees! And this fragrance floats off into infinite space, while we short-lived children of man imagine that it all exists for us. Everything that exists, exists for itself alone.

The _immortelle_ is one of the earliest plants to shoot forth its leaves. It grows by the edge of the forest, and will thrive even in poor soil.

*

(May 1st.)--We have had a cold, rainy day, with hail. Toward evening, when the rain had ceased and the drops on the trees and bushes sparkled in the golden sunlight, I heard the cuckoo, for the first time this year. He flew from forest to forest, from mountain to mountain, crying everywhere.

I now know why they say: "Go to the cuckoo."[4] The cuckoo has no nest, no home of its own and, according to popular tradition, is obliged to sleep on a different tree every night. "Go to the cuckoo," therefore means: "be restless and fugitive; be at home nowhere."

When I told the grandmother of my discovery, she said: "You've hit it exactly. You manage to get some good out of everything. You've won it."

She meant that I had won the game of life.

*

My kind little pitchman has given me an unexpected treat. He has arranged a seat for me, up by the maple tree on the projecting rock. But he cut away the bushes, and thus destroyed the privacy of my favorite haunt. Nevertheless, I find it pleasant to sit there. No human being is perfectly satisfied with what another may do for him, but we may be grateful, for all; and gratitude is the soil on which joy thrives.

*

(First Sunday in May.)--On Sunday afternoons, when I may not work, I long to drive through the park in a caleche which is easy on its springs; not to be always walking or obliged to be doing something. To move through the world in the springtime, seated on soft cushions and drawn by fleet horses, or, what is still better, to ride along the turfy forest paths, while guiding and controlling a strong power--I can never forget that.

*

At night, when I look up into the vast, starry vault, with its myriad glittering orbs, I find it difficult to sit or to walk. I think of the nights when, lying back in my carriage, I drove out into the wide world and looked up at the stars. How free everything was then! I am still much affected by trifles.

*

There are days when I cannot endure the forest, when I do not wish for shade. I must then have the sun--nothing but light and sunshine. At such times, I walk along the hot and shadeless meadow paths.

*

I now have a window-shelf filled with flower-pots. How different when one has to wait for the flowers to come up, instead of receiving them in full bloom from the gardener.

*

The evenings are my enemy--always heavy and dull. Morn is my friend, for then everything is bright. How different it once was!

*

The mental state of those who are out in the world may be likened to the physical condition of Baroness Constance. There is a constant ringing in her ears, and she knows nothing of holy repose or perfect silence. It is not until one ceases to know anything of the world, or to care for it, that this mental ringing in the ears ceases, and holy repose and calm are vouchsafed us. Every sound which then enters is as a marvel.

*

The grandmother is quiet and alert, just as occasion may require. She is not one of the ever busy and excited ones, and yet she is never idle. With her great knowledge of human nature, she yet retains her kindly feelings toward all. She has thought much and yet is _naïve_. She treats me with affectionate frankness, and says that she has, all her life, wished to have a clever person about her--one who had learnt something and with whom she could talk about everything. And she does this to the letter. I am obliged to explain a thousand things to her, and she is sincerely grateful for any information I can give her.

"I like to get my kindling-wood ready in time," said she to-day. Translated into our language, this means that she likes to think over things beforehand.

But there are so many dark doors which we pass with closed eyes.

*

While watching the foal to-day, I could not help thinking that the first man who tamed a beast--that is, subdued it so that it would bear him and support him--was the first to assert the power of humanity. Other animals can kill each other, but not one of them can guide another life to its own advantage. There are no new species of beasts to be tamed now. Men are, in truth, becoming poets. They condense the intangible forces and say to steam, to light, and to the electric spark: "Come and do my bidding."

*

I have bought some sugar with which to feed my white foal. It is a great pleasure, and to-day I could not help thinking that, if any one saw us, it must have been a pretty picture.

Oh, how vain and trifling I still am!

*

Every large and extended estate, be it this very farm, or the court at the capital, has its vassals, its servants, its parasites, its willing subjects. The world is the same everywhere.

*

Peasant life is not the elegant world, but there must be plow horses as well as carriage horses.

*

To live out of one's self, to give full sway to one's native temperament, to remain unmoved by external influences:--thus may one learn to know himself and that which is highest. It is in the desert waste that God reveals himself to the individual heart. The bush burns and yet is not consumed.

*

Whenever I look at the mountains, I am impressed anew with their sublimity.

The world below me is covered by a sea of mist from which the mountain peaks here and there protrude. With every day, as it were, I behold the first day of creation.

I am beginning to understand the idea of the sublime. It is the awe of greatness, not the awe of fear. I feel as if dwelling in a temple.

*

Solitude often makes one dull and torpid. I sometimes experience this even in myself.

On a rainy Sunday, Hansei will often stand looking out of the window, for hours at a time. I feel satisfied that his first thoughts are of a horse, a cow, the sale of his wood, or of some acquaintance. At last, he falls into a sort of waking dream, and thinks of nothing at all. One awakes from this childlike lying down and gazing into the world, as from strengthening and refreshing sleep. It is indeed only another form of elementary existence.

*

Judging by my notes, I, at one time, thought this merely a station in my journey, where one is detained by interests or adventure; but now I see that I am at the goal.

I will lay down my load, as the grandmother advised me to do, and break the chests to pieces. I shall remain here for the rest of my life. And now that I have firmly resolved to remain--even if I were discovered to-morrow, and the whole world heaped its scorn upon me--I have a happy feeling of being at home. I am here, and here I shall remain.

I was not reminded of all this until to-day, when my little pitchman said: "You look so pleased, so--I don't know how, but--you never looked so before."

Yes, my dear little pitchman, you are right; it was not until to-day that I felt myself truly at home. I have struck root, like the cherry sapling before my window.

*

The old pensioner said to me to-day: "Behold, my child, age takes much from us; but I can still dream as beautifully as I did in my youth."

*

Of all the flowers, I find the heaviest dew on the rose. Is that because of the rich perfume? Does the perfume form dew? No green leaf ever has so much dew upon it, as the leaf of a flower.

*

I often feel tempted to tell the story of Leah to the whole household, Jochem included.

It often annoys me, when I think that I do not impart all I have to my friends; but how much more it would annoy me, if I were misunderstood by them.

Even in our day, art and religion are far asunder.

The latter can be imparted to all; the former cannot.

*

It is impossible to interest the masses in refined pleasures. During the week, they have nothing but hard work; and on Sunday, they find recreation at ninepins, or in dancing in heavy boots. They require rude pleasures and a rude faith.

*

(On Sunday, while the bells are ringing.)--Art does not enter into the life of the masses. For them, plastic or dramatic art, or the higher order of music or literature, do not exist.

The only idea they have of another life, over and above the trivial present, is embodied by the church, and yet that which is best in all religions is the poetry they contain.

*

What must become of one who, for years, does not read a serious book, or does not read at all, and thus takes in no great or well worked-out ideas? If he be rich and noble, his life becomes vain play; if he be poor and lowly, it becomes vain labor. And, for this reason, nature has given us song and history, has established religion which offers its jewels to all, so that every one may drink of the fermented wine of all knowledge and all art. But new wine must always be added, or--

*

(July 30th.)--The whole world was veiled in mist, and the sun was hidden from view. It seemed as if the artistic creative eye were brooding over the form it was about to usher into life. And then the cloud-flakes were rent asunder. For a moment, the mountain world was free. The mists disappear; but new ones arise from the earth.

*

Out in the world the fear of being ridiculed prevents people from expressing enthusiastic admiration of moonlight. When the whole world is illumined its soft glow, and no sound is heard save the murmur of the sparkling brook, I am filled with ecstatic delight.

*

Temptation returns, and says: "You offend against nature by wasting your rich gifts on tasks that others could accomplish as well as you. Go out into the worlds and consider your present life merely as a state of transition."

No! I shall remain!

When I stand on the mountain and gaze out into the world, I often ask myself: "Art thou still the same Irma? What vestige is left of thy past glittering life?"

Nothing but the heavy burden that oppresses my soul.

*

Weather-talk is considered a bore, and yet there is no subject more important. Plants and animals feel the changes, for they determine their fate from day to day. And are there not men whose whole life is bound up in the question: "Will the day be clear or cloudy?"

The cloud that, like a girdle, encircles yonder peak, has rested there, motionless, the whole day; and thus, too, there are days when a mist seems to be resting upon one's soul, enveloping our inner being in darkness.

*

Play of the features is distinctively a human attribute. The human face reveals changing emotions; that of the beast does not.

The beast, moreover, has always but one and the same tone. The bark of a dog is ever the same, be it in joy or anger; the only change is in the temper. Or is it only to our ears that these tones seem alike?

*

If a human being were to utter such inharmonious and disconnected tones as those produced by the mavis overhead, it would drive me to distraction. But why do these tones not affect me in the same way? Why do they almost please me? Because they are natural to the bird. But man, having the power to choose, must see to it that his tones are melodious.

*

What is all our knowledge? We do not even know what to-morrow's weather will be. There is no infallible indicator of the changes in this most essential condition of life. Nor do the farmers, although they are so fond of talking on the subject, know anything about it.

*

Harvest time is the dramatic turning-point of the year. At that time, all is haste and suspense, and men and women are alike uncongenial.

*

One need but listen to the pensioner, to learn how thoroughly corrupt the world is. His expletives have all the force of cudgels. He is constantly trying to sound me in regard to Hansei and Walpurga, and would like me to tell him of their faults. It worries him to hear them well spoken of.

*

A remark of Gunther's occurred to me to-day.

"We are all passionate; the difference between individuals being only a difference in rhythm. He who goes downstairs at one bound, may break his neck; he whose descent is gradual and careful, will remain uninjured."

*

I never look at the clock. With me, life is no longer divided into hours. I hear the bell in the valley at morning, noon and evening, and regulate my actions accordingly. The clock is in the church tower. The church tells us the time of day.

*

Old Jochem is ill. The physician who attends him is quite a jovial character, and maintains that Jochem would live many years longer if he had only been able to feed his anger and keep his lawsuits, for these furnished him with excitement and amusement, at the same time. As long as he had these, there was still something left to fight for in the world and some one to abuse, and it was this that had kept him up. Now that his life was a peaceful one, he would, in all likelihood, die of _ennui_.

"You smile," said the physician to me. "Believe me, I am quite serious. An infant in the cradle that does not cry, and a chained dog that does not bark, have neither life nor energy and will surely die."

He may be right, to a certain extent.

I feel under restraint when with the physician; for he regards me with such a strange, scrutinizing air.

"Oh, Thou good God! The grass is coming up! But they'll bury me in the earth and I'll never come up again!" was Jochem's lament.

*

The old man is dead. This very night he passed away in his sleep. No one was with him at the time.

He died like a forest tree which has lost its power of absorbing nourishment.

Little Burgei now sleeps with me. My friends will listen to nothing else, and will not suffer me to be alone at night.

*

I am filled with dread. A corpse lies on the floor above. Beside it, is a solitary lamp that is left to burn until the dead man is buried. And yet I feel that I must conquer this feeling of dread! Yes, I shall.

It still moves me deeply to think of how the old man remembered me. He sent for me yesterday; and, when I went up to his bedside, he said: "Irmgard, you were a stranger and yet were kind to me--I'd like to leave you something. I've been thinking the matter over and find that I still have something to give you. It's the best of all that I own. It would do me no good to have it buried with me, and it will be of great benefit to you, for there's a charm in it. Here it is--take it--it's the bullet that struck me on the third rib. Take good care of it. He who bears with him a bullet that has once hit a man, is in no danger of sudden, unexpected death. You can rely on that! And now I've something to ask you: Tell me, what was your father's name? You've told me that he's dead. When I get to heaven, I'll hunt him up and tell him that you're quite a good girl; a little bit queer, perhaps, but right good for all. I'll tell your father that, and it'll be good news for him."

I could not tell him the name--how could I? All I could do was to thank him for giving me what had been so precious in his own eyes. And, strange to say, when I take the bullet in my hand and look at it, it agitates me greatly.

I will now prepare myself to follow the old man to his grave.

*

I was at the churchyard while the old man was buried. I shall lie there, too, some day.

I feel as if death might be conquered by the will. I am determined to live; I will not die. Is force of will the hidden thing within me, that I am ever seeking? And yet, I have no will. No one has. All our life, all our thoughts, are simply the necessary result of events and experiences, of waking perception and nocturnal dreams. Like the beasts, we may change the scene; but, the greater one, the prison that confines us, we cannot change. We cannot quit the earth. The laws of gravitation and attraction hold our souls fast as well as our bodies. Far above me, move the stars, and I am nothing more than a flower or a blade of grass clinging to the earth. The stars look down at me and I look up to them, and yet we cannot join each other.

*

A reigning prince has visited our farm. His highness Grubersepp, of whom Walpurga has often spoken to me, has arrived, bringing his little son, or--to speak more correctly--his two black horses and his son with him. The house is all bustle, and every one seems as proud and happy as if a reigning prince had actually come.

Grubersepp looked at me with a curious air.

"Is that prim-looking girl," said he to Hansei, while pointing backward with his thumb, "one of your wife's relations?"

"Yes; my wife--" Hansei muttered something--I saw that it went hard with him to tell a lie, and, above all, to the great farmer to whom he was showing his property.

Among the peasants, it is just the same as elsewhere. Only the great ones know each other. But their intercourse is beautiful and impressive, and, although they exchange no friendly words, they serve each other by friendly actions.

The family have been made happy, for Grubersepp has said that the farm was in good order; and when Grubersepp says that, it is as much as if the intendant should say: "divine."

During the two days Grubersepp spent here, there was no rest in the house; that is, every one was busy thinking of him. Now everything is running in its accustomed groove, and every face is radiant with joy. No matter how well satisfied one may be with himself, it is something quite different to receive words of approval from the lips of another, and especially so, when the words of commendation come from a man so exalted as Grubersepp.

*

I am still trembling with fright. I was in the woods to-day. I was sitting on my bench, and saw some one walking among the trees. Now and then he would stop to gather a flower or pick up a stone. He came near and--who was it?

It was Gunther, the friend for whose presence I had so often longed. He asked me, in his deep, clear voice: "Child, does this road lead down to the village?"

I felt as if choking, and could not utter a word. I pointed to the footpath and, in fear and trembling, arose from my seat. He asked me: "Are you dumb, poor child?"--This saved me. I am dumb; I cannot speak. Without uttering a word, I fled from him and, when I found myself alone, I wept longer than I have for many years. I wanted to hurry after him, but he had gone. I could not support myself. My limbs gave way under me. At last I was calm--all is over--all must be over.

*

I have had long and troubled days. My work did not go as smoothly as it should have done, and much went amiss with me. The world without has aroused me.

*